“If your father wants to get you away from me,” said Louis, “it may be two years or ten. Will he like you to have my picture, Pinkie?”
“He ought to,” said that young lady, a mischievous dimple showing itself at the corner of her rosy mouth. “It’s in Freddy’s best manner, tender, individual, and American, very American.”
Louis smiled, though he would rather have seen Pinkie more respectful to her genial papa; but he had not been acquainted with that young lady for twelve long years without having learned the futility of remonstrance. His arm was around her by this time, and he was stroking back the rough, brown curls from her brow. It was much such a caress as Freddy might have bestowed; for, as Henry Randolph had said, they were both mere children.
“And did the slippers fit?” he said. “Annie Rolf painted them; but not half well enough for you, mein Röslein roth.”
Pinkie drew away from him rather abruptly. “Were he a dairyman, he’d woo thee with pats of butter,” said Virginia’s voice in her ear. Pinkie hated herself for the thought; and she loved Louis as well as at that stage of her development she was capable of loving; but she drew away from him notwithstanding.
“They are pretty enough for a queen,” she said; “and your father always fits me; or did you make them all yourself? But you know, Louis, I told you, we are not children now, and”—
“It is your birthday,” said Louis, “and you will be far away on mine, perhaps. You might kiss me for my birthday, Pinkie, and another for our good-by. I do love you so very dearly.”
Pinkie looked doubtful for a moment; but her heart was soft and young, and Louis was very handsome. Besides, it suddenly occurred to her that her father would strenuously object to any such proceeding; whereupon the dairyman and his pats of butter vanished from her mind.
“Just one, then,” she said with a demure, naughty little smile.
Louis was quite equal to the occasion.